


Famil(iarit)y

by Niitza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canonical Character Death (mentioned), M/M, Present Tense, creature!dean, witch!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep down Dean always knew, from the moment that skinwalker bit him all those years ago, that this is how he'd end up: a stray, unwanted by dad - who stopped seeing him as anything else than a watchdog for Sam a long time ago -, and unwanted by Sam - who wanted him to be anything but. So here he is, with nothing but his own senses and fangs to keep himself safe and fed, with nothing but his own hide to keep himself warm. And winter's just getting started.</p><p>Fortunately, he's found the right kind of town to get through it, the right neighborhood to pilfer until the worst is past. Even, maybe, the right house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Famil(iarit)y

**Author's Note:**

> Do not ask me where this came from. My brain is a strange place to be on a lazy Sunday morning. I apologize for the weird narration...

Dean eases his way forward through the bushes, belly grazing the ground, until he's far enough to see through the foliage and into the backyard. But it's mostly his nose and his ears, sharp and attentive, that confirm that the expanse of grass, flowers and trees is empty. There's nothing but birds perched on branches and someone mowing the lawn three houses over, the smell of freshly cut grass and, wafting from the open back door nearly opposite him, the tantalizing odor of something sizzling in a pan.

He doesn't know what attracts him to this house in particular—or, well, no, he does know, who is he kidding? It's the couple of burgers he snatched three weeks ago, and every Sunday since then, easy as pie while the cook did whatever it was that had made him step back inside. They were raw, but Dean's long since learned to accept that meat tastes better to his buds that way, agrees better with his stomach. And they were just here for the taking. Seriously, Dean knows all about the proverb, fool me once, fool me twice, and he doesn't know what it makes the guy, who still left his meat unsupervised a third time, as if he hadn't noticed it had gone missing the week before.

Dean's theory is that the guy is, to put it simply, a scatterbrain. It's a theory he feels very tempted to test right now.

For the first time he's around during the week, instead of Sunday. Apparently the guy's habit to leave his back door wide open isn't reserved to the weekends. It looks almost suspicious, inviting in anyone or anything that might want to take a peek at what's cooking and smells that good.

And okay, maybe Dean's letting himself be dragged around by his nose and stomach more than by his scientific curiosity, but he'll take a little risk over digging through dumpsters for scraps any day. He still has some dignity to maintain, no matter how little.

Once he's made sure the road is clear, he cuts through the garden, thankful for the recently cut grass that doesn't rustle too much under his paws. He goes more slowly up the stairs and across the porch, careful not to let his claws click onto the boards. He stops by the door and throws a cautious glance in.

It opens directly onto the kitchen. There's no sign of the only inhabitant of the house, no movement, no sound, no smell. Not downstairs at least. And no sound of steps coming through the ceiling, or from the stairs.

The worst being that, from what he's observed up until now, Dean wouldn't even put it past the guy to have gone on an errand while leaving something cooking on the stove. Seriously, if he goes on like this, one day he'll come back to a pile of charcoal. Which is a pity—for the house, which is nice, and for whatever's cooking right now, which seems good.

Spurred on by the quiet and the smell, Dean slides into the kitchen. He's still wary, his ears and nose straining, but he still doesn't perceive anything. He walks up to the stove, with its pan and pot that are too far up for him to get a glimpse of what's inside them, and has half a mind to turn the burners off just in case. Might as well do the guy a solid in exchange for all the meat he ate from him. He prepares to do just that, actually—it's not like turning a button is beyond him in this shape—only then he unexpectedly hears-

"Got you."

And suddenly the guy is right here, standing in front of the fridge where he _wasn't_ just a second before, throwing his arms forward and down to grab Dean. Dean panics and darts towards the exit, but now matter how fast he reacts, the guy's is faster—almost preternaturally—and snatches him anyway. Dean struggles, tries to bite, and the guy tells him to stop, tries to immobilize him, says he's not trying to hurt him, will he just-

He gets his hand on Dean's muzzle—mistake, offering his fingers to Dean's fangs, only then there's this surge, this spark, something like electricity running between them through the contact of skin on fur and-

They both freeze. Their eyes meet. The guy's are wide and so so blue, for a moment they look like they're glowing.

"You are-" he starts, and crap, he's felt it, he knows, of course he knows, he's a freaking _witch_. The power buzzing right under his skin makes Dean's hackles rise, his nose tingle. Fortunately, he recognizes an opening when he sees one and, taking advantage of the man's surprise—since he obviously wasn't expecting the dog he was trying to catch to not quite be a dog—he tears himself away and runs out the back door.

He hears the guy calling but he doesn't care, doesn't listen, just runs through the grass and jumps over the fence, through the following garden and over another fence. All his muscles stretch and tense as he lengthen his strides and this he's always loved, since the first time he willingly shifted, how his body feels like it's made for the run. He lands on the sidewalk and jumps onto the road—and only thinks to look when he hears the screech of tires, a shout. He barely catches a glimpse of a car barreling towards him before impact.

The front of the car hits him, then the ground, and he doesn't even have the time to gather his wits before pain explodes in his legs, in his ribs, burns through his lungs and spreads everywhere like a shockwave. Blood, acrid and metallic, wells up in his throat and he chokes, and there are people around him, panicking, speaking too fast for him to understand, touching him, taking him. He whimpers at the pain, at the feel of their hands on his fur—too much, too soon—, at their voices, at their smells. There is a rush and car doors banging shut, the roar of a motor and shouted instructions. Plastic, exhaust, sweat and perfume, smells press down on him, on his skull, make him feel nauseous and dumb and dizzy until-

 

———

 

He wakes up in a cage. There's panic, for a second, before he remembers, before he identifies the smells and sounds surrounding him—antiseptics, other animals, dust, blood.

He's at a veterinary clinic. Of course.

He tries to move, but doesn't really succeed. His body is swathed in bandages, one of his front legs in a cast. He hurts. _Look both ways before crossing the road_ , he scolds himself, as he did Sammy, so many times, so long ago. The kid always tended to get distracted. _I guess I've finalized my shift into a stupid pet. Yay, me…_

The other animals smell curious and invasive. Dean studiously avoids the stare of a cat sitting in a cage on the other side of the narrow room and slowly, incrementally, manages to move. He turns to face the wall, turns his back to them, to the room, not caring about how it goes against the instincts deeply ingrained in him. He's in a cage, he's broken. (His family doesn't want him.) What worse could happen?

He falls back asleep.

 

———

 

When he wakes up again one of the workers, the vet's assistant by the sound of it, is showing someone into the room. Dean doesn't even need to hear the man's voice to know who it is. He recognizes the smell, recognizes the buzzing magic like a tremor underneath the earth, underneath his own skin, as if one direct contact with it was enough to make him attuned to it. It feels like he'd be able to find it in a crowd, from meters away.

Once the man is in the room the assistant leaves, tells him to be careful because some of the animals have had bad experiences with humans and might be wary, defensive, ready to bite. He'll be in the next room if there are any questions.

It's easy to put two and two together: the guy's pretending to want to adopt a pet in order to get to Dean. The question is, why? What does he want?

Dean uses his senses to follow the man's slow progress through the room but doesn't deign move or even throw him a glance over his shoulder. The guy doesn't seem to care. He stops to scratch a cat under its jaw, making it purr. Dean feels a spark of irritation. He's never liked cats to begin with, but since he's turned half dog it's become even worse, and now because of one of them he has to wait to get answers.

It's not only cats, through. The guy gives his attention to every single pet in the room, making them joyous or appeased, before he finally sits down in front of Dean's cage. Dean hasn't moved. The guy doesn't feel surprised. He begins to talk.

His name is Castiel, he says. He talks very quietly, his voice deep and soothing. He apologizes for what happened, for scaring Dean. He didn't know Dean was not a simple dog, was more than a stray Castiel had been trying to lure in to bring back to its owner or to a shelter. And yes, Castiel is a witch, Dean probably felt it.

He feels that what happened was his fault. So to make up for it, he has an offer. Dean's wounds will prevent him from shifting until they're healed, and he can't look forward to staying in a cage until then, or maybe for even longer—with the only other option of being taken in by a family, which will lead to complications once Dean's healed and wants to leave. But Castiel, he knows what Dean is. What he needs. He can offer him the shelter of his home until he's recovered, and let him go his way after that.

Once he's laid it all down he stops talking, and waits. And Dean-

Dean finds himself considering his offer.

His first thought is that it sounds like throwing himself into the lion's den, of course. After all, even though he has little knowledge of what witches use for ingredients in their freaky spells, there is a definite possibility that some part of a skinwalker might count as one. Who knows, maybe they're even rare, and Castiel hopes to harvest them and sell them to the highest bidder.

But at the same time the witch clearly has no idea that Dean is a hunter on top of being a skinwalker. Which means that Dean has the advantage when it comes to info. And following the guy home would be the ideal way to investigate.

See, Dean's not dumb. He knows that not all witches dabble into evil, black magic crap. If they were, dad would've ended up hunting a lot more of them over the years. No, some of them must live their life quietly, only using their abilities to ease their way through it. And okay, maybe to circumvent some laws. But it's not like Dean never broke any of them either. As long as they don't go cursing and killing people, he's willing to overlook their presence—mostly because a witch not acting up is pretty much invisible, unless you're up close.

When it comes to Castiel, Dean's been up close. Felt his magic, nearly saw it, and it didn't feel evil. Still doesn't.

But you never know. So, investigating it is, just to be safe. And if it turns out that Castiel is trying to summon the devil in his basement, Dean can play dumb until he's healed, then go fetch dad or Bobby or hell, even Sam. Or maybe he'll manage to revert to his human form and take care of it himself.

So yeah, he considers Castiel's offer. And Castiel, sitting on the dirty ground of the clinic, waits patiently for him to make up his mind.

It takes a pointed look for him to understand that he'll be waiting for a long time. Dean has to make sure he's thought about everything, weighed up the pros and cons.

Castiel gets it. He agrees. He promises he'll be back in three of days to know Dean's decision. Then he leaves, only briefly stopping up front to enquire about Dean's health and if it'll be possible to take him, if Castiel decides to go through with the adoption. Dean folds his ears back in anger at the term—no matter what he looks like, he's not just some pet or lost kid you can pick up on the side of the road and make yours just like that—and resolutely ignores the assistant's answer.

He closes his eyes, and tries for some more sleep.

 

———

 

He gets his three days.

When Castiel comes back, he's ready to follow him home, something the man seems to know from the moment he steps through the door. He gets that small smile on his lips, happy and relieved, and Dean really hopes this is not a scam.

They have to go through several procedures, files and forms to fill up. Dean is registered now, has a number tattooed inside his ear that must've been done when he was out. How humiliating. By the time they come to the seemingly interminable list of medication and instructions for the care of his wounds, his patience is running short.

Castiel doesn't seem to have the same problem. He listens attentively, as if it were of utmost importance that Dean heals properly.

Then finally, finally, they get to leave. Castiel drives them to his house in a car so small Dean's sure he wouldn't fit in it were he in his human form, and he makes himself slumber in the backseat so as not to feel the ache from missing the Impala.

At the house Castiel gives Dean a brief tour, shows him the entrance, the living-room, the kitchen that Dean already knows. Upstairs will have to wait until Dean's less broken and downstairs is apparently where Castiel does his magicking, if the smell wafting from the basement door is anything to go by. Castiel only opens it briefly, long enough for Dean to take a cursory sniff and sneeze. The man chuckles, Dean glares, but he considers it a good sign that Castiel doesn't try to hide where he prepares his potions or makes his spells or whatever. It looks more like he doesn't have anything to hide.

Slowly, Dean's limps to the couch and requisitions it, silently daring Castiel to protest. Castiel doesn't, so Dean settles on the cushions, settles in the house, prepares to wait for his ribs and leg to heal. It will take weeks.

This, he realizes, will get him through the worst of the winter, more if he plays it right, and in far much better conditions than he'd been hoping for. He hadn't known how he'd swing it, hadn't known what to do after Sam had chased him away, sent him packing with all the memories of their past, their family, not caring about what John had said (ordered), not caring that it was december, not caring about Dean, and what he would do, alone with nothing to his name apart from his own hide.

He'd had a vague idea to head up north, to walk all the way to Bobby's—hoping the man wouldn't welcome him with a row of cartridges or sic Rumsfeld on him—but had soon realized he wouldn't make it if he traveled during the cold months, no matter how thick his fur. Hell, he hadn't been sure he'd make it to the next town and be able to take up residence there for a little while. But he had. And now he actually has a roof over his head, guaranteed meals and a guilt-ridden human at his beck and call. It sounds too good to be true.

Too bad the human's a witch, and the entrance fee being hit by a car like a stupid runaway dog.

But he'll take it.

 

———

 

Living with Castiel, it turns out, is strangely nice. True, it might mostly be due to the fact that it's in a house instead of a string of crappy motel rooms or a car (the Impala might be beautiful and loved, she's not that large). Dean remembers Bobby's, he remembers Pastor Jim's, how nice it was sometimes to settle, to sit in a real kitchen and be able to run around in a garden when he grew restless, to lie down on fresh sheets and not be hungry. Sure, right now he can't really use the kitchen, can't run, can barely hobble from one room to the next. What he does, mostly, is getting hairs all over Castiel's couch.

Castiel doesn't seem to mind.

The guy's okay, if a bit weird. He's quiet. He owns a shop, which he brings Dean to after less than a week because he can feel his new housemate is getting bored out of his skull. It's a strange blend of second-hand bookstore, herbalist and antique dealer, with a room in the back for the stuff that kids or unsuspecting civilians shouldn't touch or see or read. That's where people in the know go—both kinds, the hippies swearing by all that new age crap, who don't trust modern medicine and think they're really clever for having found that nook in the wall; and those who're the real deal, witches in need of ingredients, instructions or ready-made potions. They must be the ones giving good money for whatever Castiel sells, because when Dean's there the guy barely gets a couple of customer who stay upfront and maybe buy one measly knick-knack, and surely that wouldn't be enough for him to stay afloat.

When not at work, Castiel spends most of his time at home. He reads countless newspapers and books on any subject from advanced physics to Asian paganism. Soon he even starts reading passages out loud, as if he thinks Dean would be interested, or should know about why crows were so important to Russian shamans. He does some gardening—and Dean's pretty sure he's not allowed to grow half the plants thriving in his backyard. He disappears into the basement for hours on end, boiling things, experimenting or preparing an order, which he tells Dean all about afterwards, heedless to how much he stinks, especially if he's been successful. But for all his ingenuity as a potion maker, he kind of sucks at cooking. He keeps watching shows and follows their instructions to the letter, with the determination of a man who challenged himself to one day succeed—but he still very much hasn't, and grumbles at Dean over yet another lump of burnt… _something_ , because being a dog sure doesn't prevent Dean from letting him know how hilarious he finds this all. The only thing Castiel is good at making are burgers, which he grills every Sunday, his own little ritual because to no one's surprise—and Dean's utmost relief—he doesn't go to mass. He doesn't go out much at all, actually. He doesn't have colleagues, never has any friends over, even less a girlfriend.

He seems fine with it, with his life, but he also seems kind of lonely. The way he starts and keeps talking to Dean is proof enough. They have conversations that should remain one-sided and he asks for advice he should never get. But that's the thing: Castiel doesn't just throw words in the air, knowing they won't be caught. He's not talking to himself, the presence of the dog a flimsy excuse to prove he's not quite losing it yet. No, he's talking _to_ Dean. He knows he's understood. And he wants to be, watches for Dean's reaction—be it a scoff, a look, a lazy wag of the tail or the flip of an ear. What's more, most of the time he interprets Dean's silent answer correctly. In a way only Sam ever did. In a way, actually, that must be helped by his witchy powers, the very ones that had him find out Dean's name.

Dean's not sure how comfortable he is with living with a witch that maybe kind of has the ability to dig through his brain. But with every day that goes by he feels more comfortable with everything else. And the attention Castiel grants him, similar to that he would give a normal human being, well, it's nice. He asks for Dean's advice, like it's worth something, at least to him. He listens. He even takes it into account, sometimes. Like when Dean huffs at a program and he changes the channel. Or when Dean just stares at his suggestion for take out and he nods, yes, Dean's right, Mexican's far too risky, how about some Thai, then? Or when Dean stops beside the couch with a pointed look and he scoots over so Dean can jump onto it and sprawl all over it, his head in Castiel's lap.

Castiel has a very nice couch.

Dean often does that while Castiel reads the newspaper, surreptitiously reading them too. It can't hurt to check if there's anything shady going on in the area. He might not be in any state to do anything right now, but still. A hunt is a hunt, and he'll find a way to get around to it eventually.

Castiel skims over most articles on politics and justice, squinting his eyes and scrunching his nose up as if disapproving of humanity entirely. But he lingers on others—local news, mostly. Those he reads attentively. And strangely it takes a while for Dean to realize that they are exactly the same as the ones he himself focuses on. Articles with something weird to them, bits and pieces of information that don't fit right. But once he's noticed, it's like a door's been opened and he sees everything. Sees how Castiel will carefully fold the newspaper in which he found an article that made him pause, and take it with him the following day. On these days he leaves earlier than usual and comes back later, covered in smells that aren't those, dusty and spicy and old, of his shop.

Once, he doesn't come back, disappears all through Friday and Saturday, and when he finally stumbles in late in the evening he looks worn, the collar of his shirt and the tips of his hair a bit singed. He reeks of something dark and vicious that doesn't come from him but sticks to him like slime, like it's trying to enter through his pores. He makes a beeline for the bathroom and doesn't come out for an hour. When he finally does his skin is pink from a thorough, insistent scrubbing, magic still coursing over it in case it missed a spot of the poison that had been clinging to it.

After that, there is little doubt left. Looks like Cas is the kind of witch that goes after his peers if they start dipping into the wrong kind of magic, like some sort of supernatural police or something.

Who knew.

Well, Dean does, now.

 

———

 

Not long after that, his cast comes off, and with it the last of his bandages. He hadn't realized how many weeks had gone by already. His leg is still a bit tender, a bit clumsy, his ribs still protest if he lies down wrong or goes down the stairs too fast, so he's nowhere near well enough to start roaming again. But there is an end to this thing, and it's finally in sight.

It makes him less happy than he thought.

Cas too must know their agreement is nearing its closing date, and yet he doesn't mention it. Dean wonders if he's pretending it's not happening, or if he just doesn't care. But, no—the way he takes the time to brush Dean when needed, the way he keeps scratching him behind the ears, careful and affectionate, even while in the middle of a rant about large industrial groups and their awful, awful pesticides, don't they see the dangers for the consumers, for the environment, for the bees, _the bees, Dean_ , whereas they're so important, _they're vital, do you understand, don't they understand, shouldn't they_ -

He does care. He knows that Dean listens, he is thankful for it, he likes having Dean here. At least it feels so, sometimes. Often.

So, pretending it is. Or maybe he forgot the situation is supposed to be temporary.

It's not like Dean never does.

And he finds himself reluctant to broach the topic. Not because he doesn't know how—by now he's sure that a look, a tilt of the head, would be enough for Cas to guess what he's thinking about—but because some part of him doesn't want to leave the guy alone again. Especially if he's going to hunt ghosts and evil witches all on his own. Who knows what can happen? Who would even notice if he doesn't come back? Who would even care, if not Dean?

He decides then and there that there's no way he'll let Cas go out on his own again. Now that he's kinda healed, he can be useful again. It's not like he'd be new at this. It might have been some time but you don't forget years of training in a couple of months, and John made sure that Dean was a well trained as a dog as he'd been as a human.

Cas doesn't know that, though. Fact is, Dean found out quite a lot about the guy, but the reverse isn't true. They might have their ways to communicate, but it doesn't allow for a lot of sharing about the past. Dean's pretty sure he trusts Cas, though. So he takes the leap, takes the risk of him finding out about the hunter thing by stealing several newspapers in a row to peruse them by himself. When he finally finds something he brings it to Cas to point out one article to him.

The worst being, when he does, Cas isn't even surprised. Like of course Dean would know what to look for.

Who knows, maybe skinwalkers—and every monster there is—are secretly experts on all the things that go bump in the night. Maybe being a monster is like being part of the underground, where everybody knows everybody. Maybe witchcraft is the only way humans have to enter that realm.

It sounds kinda cool, actually.

Anyway, Cas is not surprised. Until he understands why Dean looked for a case.

Then he grows hesitant, honest to God worried, because what about Dean's leg, what about Dean's ribs, does Dean even know what he'd be getting into?

Dean won't hear any of it, of course. One, he knows so well what he's getting into he could draw Cas a picture in his sleep, if he still had his fingers. He's a pro. He'll help. He'll not be deterred. Especially since two, Cas can't keep going on hunts without backup.

(And three, although he won't admit it, he's quite curious to see what a fight between a witch and an angry spirit looks like—or, better, between _two witches_. He bets its badass.)

Cas, who can be quite the pushover when you know where to apply pressure—do it wrong and you'll find yourself confronted to a wall of stubbornness thicker than the door of a bank safe—, caves in after a while, extracting the promise that Dean will be careful.

Dean deigns to agree to that stipulation. He's not stupid. And now that they're two, what could happen really, since this looks like nothing but a quick salt and burn?

Which is, of course, why "this" ends up being the one time things go spectacularly awry.

Cas gets distracted by worrying about Dean and spends too much time making sure he's alright. So naturally, the vengeful spirit whoops in during another second of inattention and throws him against the wall. His head hits it, hard, with an horrifying crack, and he crumples to the ground, unconscious, leaving a dark read streak behind him, and Dean-

Dean's tried shifting back to human form, several times—since dad sent him after Sam, since Sam made him leave, since he's met Cas. No dice. At first, he'd thought it didn't work because he didn't really want to, because it went against dad's orders or his survival instincts. Then he'd thought it was because he wasn't healed enough. But as his leg recovered its strength, and shifting still remained out of reach—like his body had forgotten how to do it, or refused to do it—he'd reluctantly come to the conclusion that he wasn't able to. Not anymore. And that maybe he would never be again.

Unless, know knew? Unless he found John, and the man ordered him to shift. It had always worked like a charm.

But dad isn't here right now, and yet seeing Cas bleeding, at the mercy of that fucking spirit…

Dean doesn't even think about it. Doesn't even realize it's happening before the iron bar is in his hand and he's swinging it right through the ghost, which disappears with a screech of pain.

He's left standing in the middle of the empty room, stark naked, hands clutching his makeshift weapon, chest heaving.

For a moment he blinks, and gapes, and almost stumbles as the sudden change in perspective and balance registers. But then his eyes fall on Cas, still lying on the ground against the wall, and all thoughts fly out the window. He rushes to him.

Cas doesn't react when Dean touches him, his shoulder, his neck, when he calls him and pats his cheek because he doesn't dare shake him. Dean whines in distress—or would, only the sound remains stuck in his all too human throat. But at least it reminds him of the body he now has, a grown man's, full of strength. With careful gestures he slings Cas over his shoulder and stands. He staggers a bit, unsure on only two legs, even less with an added burden. But he doesn't fall.

He makes his way out of the house and into Cas' tiny crappy car before the ghost can come back. The neighborhood is quiet and dark, everyone asleep still. By some miracle it occurs to him to dig through the trunk for the change of clothes Cas brought, to swiftly put it on before sitting at the wheel and peeling down the street.

It wouldn't do to be pulled over for public indecency.

On the way he quietly freaks out—about Cas' prolonged unconsciousness, about driving, about suddenly being human again, when he hasn't been for months. Yet surprisingly, he doesn't crash the car.

The hospital takes Cas in without too many questions, and then Dean's left in the waiting room. He walks up and down the few feet it spans, ignoring the anxious, irritated glances of the people around him who wish he would just sit down already. But he can't. He can't sit—tried it, and didn't know what to do with his legs, which felt too long, or with his arms, these two ungainly, useless appendages. And as the adrenaline comes down he finds himself worrying about more than just Cas, about how he shifted without thinking, without noticing, because…

What if it was just a fluke, a change provoked by the emergency of the situation? What if he shifts back, with as little control over it as less than an hour ago? What if it happens right here, in the middle of the hospital, in front of all these people?

He gnaws at his lips, at his fingers, wishes he had his fangs and a bone to sink them into.

He doesn't turn.

To his relief, the doctor comes out soon after, and tells him Cas has regained consciousness. They'll keep him in observation overnight, but he should be fine and Dean can go see him if he wants to. Dean does, rushes to the room—only to stop right before he reaches the door, suddenly nervous.

Cas has never seen him like this, as a human. All at once, it makes a huge difference. But then he hears:

"Dean?"

Cas' voice is soft, hesitant. But he knows Dean's here. Of course he knows. He always does.

Dean shuffles in, hands in the pockets of his jeans—well, Cas' jeans. Shuffles to the bed. Sits on the chair. Only then does he manage to look up.

Cas has a bandage wrapped around his head but he is smiling. He doesn't seem surprised, although he looks at Dean intensely, as if mapping out his features, memorizing the angles and curves of his face.

"Hello, Dean."

"Uh, hi." Dean's own voice is hoarse, hesitant. Rough from disuse. He's always had a hard time with it, with talking, finding words. It's always been easier to just not. Let dad and Sam lead the conversation. After months as a dog, this hasn't changed.

"Thank you for saving my life," Cas says, solemn.

His genuine gratefulness makes Dean squirm in his seat.

"Wouldn't have had to save it if I hadn't been there for you to worry about," he mutters.

"Oh, that spirit's pretty nasty. I'm sure it would've found a way to get me distracted even in your absence."

Dean huffs, but doesn't bother contradicting him further.

They don't talk much more. Cas is a bit loopy from his painkillers, and tired. Dean stays until he falls back asleep, until a nurse comes in and tells him that visiting hours are over. He'll have to come back the following morning.

When he does, there's dirt on his clothes and blisters on his hands. He reeks of gasoline and burnt wood. One look is all Cas needs to know what he's been up to and he frowns. One, because apparently there are other ways to exorcize an angry spirit, "less barbaric ways" that don't involve desecrating a grave; two, because Cas might've suspected that Dean knew about ghosts, but he hadn't guessed it was because Dean is a hunter.

Surprise, surprise.

But curiously it's not a deal breaker. Cas doesn't start looking at Dean like he expects him to try and kill his host just for being a witch. He probably can feel Dean has no intention to.

He gets released from the hospital, and since he's still a bit wobbly Dean drives him home. They don't talk on the way. Dean still doesn't crash the car, but he's nervous about every turn, and about everything they're not saying. He's starting to ache all over, cramps in his shoulders and arms and back. His destroyed palms throb at every move of the wheel.

Once at home, Cas settles. He lets Dean cook him lunch, then dinner, and has an early night. They still don't talk, Cas only grumbling about Dean's undeniable superiority in the kitchen.

How weird, to see their situations so completely reversed.

 

———

 

The following morning Cas goes back to work. He applied some sort of witchy salve to his wound, he said, and it sped up the healing process enough for him to be okay. Dean stays home, like before.

Except that Dean's human, now. Which leaves him a bit at a loss for what to do.

He doesn't dare try shifting back into his dog form. He's afraid he'll remain stuck. But being human means he's definitely healed, should be on his way, or at least should do something more than when he was a dog.

He ends up buying groceries and cleaning the house all over, because after all he can't leave until he's made sure Cas will be alright, with his head and all. All day he feels restless, something itching under his skin, a kind of cabin fever in reverse since the idea of taking off only makes it worse. He busies himself with dinner.

When Cas comes home he doesn't comment on anything—on Dean still being human or still being here, on Dean suddenly playing housewife—although as they eat he starts frowning, glancing at Dean as if confused, as if waiting for something. Only, no way Dean's the one starting this conversation. If Cas wants him gone, he'll have to be the one to say it.

He doesn't say it. He doesn't say anything, apart from some inane remarks about his day.

It goes on for three days, before Friday comes and Cas gives in and sits them down to talk. Dean expects a speech about how Dean's healed now, completely since he's been able to shift, and it's been nice… But even though Cas was ready to welcome a skinwalker under his roof, he won't welcome a hunter, so Dean should be on his way. Dean's braced for it. He's ready to be kicked out, again. It's not like he would be surprised.

But he ends up surprised anyway, because what comes out of Cas' mouth is nothing like that.

"Do you intend to let us close the bond or do you want us to go the old-fashioned way and are waiting for me to actually beg for it?"

He looks strained around the eyes, as if plagued by a headache, his lips repeatedly bitten into. He's, in short, a mess—an irritated one.

"Uh, what?" is all Dean finds in himself to ask. "What bond?"

" _The_ bond," Cas growls back, like he doesn't like Dean playing dumb. Only Dean… Well, Dean isn't.

He blinks at Cas. Cas stares back, impatient.

Seconds drag by.

"You know what I am talking about," Cas finally says, a slow roll of syllables that really means: _Don't tell me otherwise, I won't believe you_.

Dean nervously scratches the back of his ear. "Not really, no."

Cas stares at him for a long time, as if waiting for him to cave in and chuckle and say that yeah, okay, Cas is right, he's got him. When Dean doesn't, Cas closes his eyes, rubs at them and breathes out.

"How is that even possible?" he mutters to himself, then straightens. "I'm talking about the bond that is forming between us." He looks at Dean expectantly.

Dean knows he still doesn't get it when he hazards: "Like, friendship, or…?"

"No," Cas cuts him off. "The bond forming between me, a witch, and you, a familiar. Because you showed me your human form and I thought-" He pauses for a second, almost freezes, and when he speaks again it's on an entirely different tone: "But you actually have no idea about what's been happening, do you? You turned because of the ghost, because I needed help you couldn't provide in your other form, not because…" He trails off and his eyes drop to his lap. His hands briefly clench.

"Dude," Dean says, and Cas takes a breath, straightens up, looks at him. "Dude, I'm not a familiar."

Cas stares at him for a second. "Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Dean-"

" _Cas_." Dean nearly rolls his eyes. "Look, I'm a hunter, okay? I know my stuff. I know what a familiar is, and what bit me was a skinwalker."

"Unless it wasn't, and the bite was part of a spell," Cas counters, stubborn as ever.

"So what, you're telling me the skinwalker was actually a familiar, and that it cursed me into being like him before my dad killed it? Is that even possible?"

"It's more complicated than that. But, basically, yes. If you have the right predisposition—which is rare, admittedly, but not unheard of." He gazes at Dean for several seconds before he adds: "Most people would consider it a gift."

Dean snorts. " _Right_."

Cas narrows his eyes at him but chooses not to rise to the bait. "But if you aren't a born familiar, it's not surprising you didn't realize what was going on," he says instead. "In which case it is a good thing we're addressing the matter now. You need to know before it's too late. You need to have a choice."

"A choice for what?"

"We've been developing a bond, as happens between a witch and a familiar when they're compatible." A pause. "And willing."

"I didn't agree to shit," Dean grumbles, crossing his arms.

"I know." Cas' gaze is strangely solemn, intent. "Believe me when I say it never occurred to me you might not be aware of what was going on. It's only now that you've taken your human form and still hasn't reached back that I-"

"But what exactly is going on?" Dean asks.

"Well, we've been syncing up."

Dean's starting to lose his patience with all that crappy, abstruse witch crap. "Which _means_?"

"Haven't you noticed? It's all those little things… How we know where the other is even from a distance. How we can perceive states of the mind or even thoughts." Cas pauses. "How do you think I always knew what you were thinking every time I asked for your opinion?"

Now that he's pointing it out, it does sound kinda unnatural. "I just thought you were very good at reading people," Dean mumbles.

"And what, in all the interactions you saw me have outside of this house, ever led you to believe that?"

Point.

"And then there's the way our control over magic is stronger. It's smoother, more balanced-"

"Wait," Dean says, and Cas actually breathes out harshly, letting his irritation show at the constant interruptions. " _Our_ magic? _I_ have magic? Since when?"

"Since- Magic is not something you _have_ , per se, it's an energy, of sorts, that permeates all things. Some people are sensible enough to feel it, gather it and bend it to their will." He probably notices this doesn't make a lick of sense to Dean. "Anyone can have magic, if they train properly. You becoming a familiar only made you more sensitive, more receptive to it. So open, in fact, that it can make you change form, adopt a shape that reveals your innermost instincts and yearnings. That's what powers your shifts. What else would it be?"

"I don't know," Dean retorts. "I don't know how or why skinwalkers do it, just that they do. And me too now."

"Once again, you are not a skinwalker. Although their ability is similar to yours. Which isn't surprising, given how close both kinds are."

"I always thought skinwalkers were werewolves' cousins or something," Dean says. At Cas' stare, he shrugs uncomfortably. "That's what dad told us."

Cas keeps staring. "The depth of hunters' ignorance and the immensity of their misconceptions will never cease to astound me."

Dean frowns, piqued. But at the same time can feel uncertainty uncoiling at the pit of his stomach.

See, Dean doesn't really remember what happened when he became whatever he is now. He remembers there was a bite, because that took forever to completely heal, but he doesn't remember how he got it. It's all a blur, all mixed up by the weeks of fever and sickness that followed. The first real memory he has is of after—it's the clear cut terror of a nightmare, of shifting for the first time while falling off the bed, of not understanding what was going on. He'd hidden under the bed for hours, curled up in a corner, a quivering ball of confusion and fright, terrified of what had happened to his body, and of Sam and John. Because he had firmly believed, for a moment, for days—for months and years—that that was it, that John was going to kill him, since he'd become a monster too.

But John hadn't killed him. Be it the father buried deep inside him, be it the strategist that recognized a potential advantage, he'd decided something good could come out of it. Dean could be useful, if trained, as a hunter, an attack dog.

Dean hadn't dared question it, him. Hadn't dared ask how he'd become _this_.

He realizes now that John never told him that he'd been bitten by a skinwalker. Dean just assumed after they fought one years later, when dad warned him, told him that this was what he could turn into, would turn into if he wasn't careful, if he didn't train and discipline himself properly.

"Anyway," Cas says, breaking the silence. "We've been growing closer. And now it's come to the point where we have to do something about it—no matter which direction we decide to take."

"So we have options, then?"

"We have. You have," Cas insists at once. "I won't have you bound to me against your will, Dean."

He looks so earnest, so determined, that Dean doesn't even think of doubting him.

"Good to know I get a say."

"Of course you get a say. Familiars always do."

"Really?" Dean says, raising his eyebrows. "I thought they were nothing but, like, glorified pets or something."

Cas' whole demeanor changes.

"That," he seethes. "Is not true. Familiar are companions, they are equals. The bond between a witch and a familiar is sacred, it's a relationship based on mutual respect, on trust, on gains. Not on control. Never."

"Gains? Like there'd be something in it for both of us?"

"Yes. Of course," Cas says. "The magic runs better, smoother, our control over it is more powerful. More balanced. For a witch, it means less risk of toppling over into dark magic or losing control. For a familiar, it'll prevent him or her from being torn apart by it." He pauses. "I have to be honest with you, Dean. It's very difficult for a familiar to survive for long without a bond. Their nature is to be entirely open to the flow of magic. It allows them to shift, but it's also dangerous." He leans forward, as if to make sure Dean's really listening. "Think of magic like a large river. A familiar has been plunged right into it, and he or she needs an anchor not to be swept away. Especially," he adds, biting his lip. "If he's as inexperienced as you are. It's actually quite surprising that you survived that long."

Dean shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "Yeah, well. Clearly I did."

"Were you alone this whole time?" Cas asks.

"Uh, no. I mean, I was with my dad and Sam—my brother. But they're not skinwalkers or shifters or familiars, just good old hunters."

Cas nods. "But it might've helped. As your family, as an authority figure and a close companion, they must have stood as substitutes for an anchor. Especially thanks to their own use of magic, no matter how small."

At that Dean laughs. "Oh no. No way. My old man would cut his throat before he takes part in any of that witch crap. He's all about hunting them down."

"Hunters do use some kinds of magic," Cas counters. "Turning water holy, blessing silver bullets. It's not powerful magic, but it's enough."

Dean blinks. He'd never thought of that.

"But you're telling me I won't make it on my own?" he asks, getting back to the problem at hand. "How's that having a choice?"

"Oh, you'd make it on your own, I'm sure. As you did before. You can go back to your family…" He frowns at the snort Dean can't hold back, but doesn't ask what it's about. "Or you will find something, someone else. Your instinct will lead you. It led you here, after all."

Dean remembers it, remembers the pull he'd felt towards Cas' house. So it really hadn't only been his nose and stomach dragging him forward. Huh.

He feels reassured, knowing he isn't entirely dependent on someone else. Yet he understands what Cas isn't saying: that he can make it on his own, yes, but it won't be easy. It won't be nice. Actually, it probably will be quite horrible. And dangerous. Unless he finds someone, like Cas said.

The thought of getting that close to a stranger, though, to someone who wouldn't be Cas… Were he in his dog shape, his hackles would rise.

No way.

He's remained silent too long, expression half-way between a frown and a pout. Cas interprets it as nothing good.

"I know that this is a lot to take in at once," he says, his eyes mournful. "And it is nowhere near enough. It would take months, years, for me to explain all the ins and outs of familiars and witches. And even then, it wouldn't be enough. And we don't have the time." He pauses. "I know you didn't ask for any of this, and I'm sorry it happened this way. But I need to say this." His hand twitches on the cushion between them, as if aching to wrap itself around Dean's, and he leans further, catching Dean's eyes as he speak. "I'd love to have you as my companion. I'd be proud to have you as my familiar. I think we could be something good. More than good. We could be anything. What we have, it works. At least I think it does." The look in his eyes cracks, run through by uncertainty and fear and sadness, but he resolutely keeps it riveted to Dean, like he needs him to know he's telling the truth. His truth. He swallows and takes a fortifying breath before he adds: "But you do have a choice. We can part ways now. With a little bit of luck, it'll be enough. If not, there is a spell to tear apart a forming bond. It'll be complicated and painful, but it'll work."

"Okay." Cas freezes, thinking it's his answer, so Dean rushes to explain: "I mean, I don't know. But okay, I get it, I have a choice, we have options. I just- I need to think about it. Can I think about it? Like, a couple of days. Three days, like the last time. I go away for three days, stay on my own, clear my head. Just so I can think about it."

Cas watches him for a long time. He looks down at his hands. "You can," he says in a low voice. "Of course you can."

And so that's decided. Even if Dean feels awkward about it, he lets Cas lend him some clothes, some cash, enough to get him through the days he asked for.

Cas accompanies him to the door, and watches him walk down the path to the street. He returns Dean's wave with one of his own, small, almost shy, almost weak. Then he closes his door, as if he doesn't want to see Dean go.

 

———

 

Dean finds a motel. And thinks about it.

He walks through town—its shape so different seen with the eyes of a human—and thinks about it. Sits on a bench—children looking so much more harmless as a human—and thinks about it. Lies on his bed—the smell of sheets washed a thousand times over but never quite clean subdued as a human—and thinks about it.

He thinks about the fact that Cas gave him enough money for several nights in a motel—but also for a cross-country bus ride. Thinks about everything he explained. Thinks about the look on his face when Dean got ready to leave, evasive but always drawn back to Dean's face, as if he was memorizing it, as if he thought, knew it was the last time—but letting Dean go all the same. He thinks about Sam, and about dad, and about home. He thinks about hunting.

He thinks about not living with Cas anymore.

Cas shuffles home on the third day, tired from dealing with one of these asshole customers that work off their frustration at not finding the dusty crap they're after on the antique dealer, and from running all the way to the other side of town to deliver an order. It's too late to cook but he is starving, which isn't helped by the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen and-

Dean hears him freeze, the front door softly clicking shut behind him. He hears him drop his bag, drop his keys, and not even bother to take off his shoes and coat before he rushes to the kitchen and finds him, standing in front of the stove, stirring dinner and adding the last spices.

Dean glances over his shoulder and tells Cas everything is nearly ready, so he should wash his hands and-

He doesn't get to finish, because in a second Cas is on him, clasping his shoulder and turning him around and throwing his arms around his neck and-

Dean doesn't expect the kiss. He's so surprised, in fact, that he doesn't even think of returning it, and blinks stupidly at Cas when he draws back.

"Is that allowed?" is all he thinks of asking, because he's not sure, because Cas sure as hell didn't mention that kind of things when he talked about the bond between a witch and their familiar.

"I don't care," Cas growls and reels him back in.

Dean thinks, _To hell with it_. It's not like anything in his life has even been conventional, or abided rules. He returns the embrace, returns the kisses, and is disappointed when Cas' stomach rumbles and the witch pulls away with a groan. He breathes, for a second, eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping Dean's shirt, like he has to make an effort to hold back and not kiss Dean again.

Instead he says: "Let's eat."

He goes to hang his coat while Dean turns off the stove and brings everything to the table.

They eat.

They finish eating.

Before Dean even has a chance to suggest doing the dishes, Cas' fingers wrap around his wrist and he says, "Leave it."

There's a look in his eyes, dark and hungry still, and full of longing. It runs up and down Dean's spine, crackles with hints of the magic drawing them closer.

"Okay," Dean says. "But you'll be the one doing them in the morning."

He follows Cas to his bedroom, tripping over the clothes Cas peels off of him on the way. He collapses onto the bed and drags Cas to him at once, over him, draws him close, close, closer. And he kisses him, and caresses him, and decides there and then he won't ever let go.

 

———

 

The bedside lamp is tilted sideways, the woolen blanket crackling with too much static electricity, with leftover energy it absorbed as it poured from them. Dean's still sweaty, still panting slightly, lying on his back among the messy sheets and staring at the ceiling, full of wonder about how everything feels the same and yet entirely different at the same time. Cas is collapsed against him, over him, rubbing his cheek against his chest like he's part cat, like he's the shapeshifting familiar here. With a simple flick of the hand he straightens the lamp, draws the curtains closed, clicks the door shut. Then he chuckles, and hides his face in Dean's neck.

"I guess that did it," he says.

"What?" Dean asks, growing sleepy, feeling drunk on he doesn't know what—or he knows what, exactly: that thing buzzing underneath his skin, flowing between him and Cas, resounding off their synchronized heartbeats.

"The magic. We're bonded."

Dean blinks at the ceiling, thinks, _Of course_. Thinks, _So that's what it is_.

Huh.

"Don't you feel it?" Cas asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer, only kisses Dean again, slow and lazy, and the powers flows flows flows, like water from his lips into Dean's parched throat.

"Oh, I feel something alright," Dean rumbles with a smirk, and Cas grins.

"I was wondering how we'd go about it."

Dean blinks up at him, slow and mellow. "About what?"

"The last step, opening the channel, I wasn't sure, since you don't know how to make conscious use of your abilities yet. Clearly, I needn't have worried."

"So this was totally the right thing to do," Dean mumbles, quite certain he doesn't completely understand what Cas is saying but not really caring. He feels comfortable, right now, quiet, cared for. Not alone.

"It would appear so," Cas replies. A silence. "Dean?"

Dean hums, eyes closed, feeling like he's sinking into the mattress. Cas chuckles again.

"Sleep, Dean," he whispers, his fingers fluttering over Dean's eyelids, down his cheek, along his jaw. "I'm here. I'll watch over you."

Dean does.

 

———

 

Life goes on, as it did before, the same and yet not. Cas still goes to work, they still read the newspapers and go out on a weekend to hunt down ghosts and evil witches when they get wind of them. Cas still sucks at cooking. They watch TV, Dean attempting to introduce Cas to the wonder that is the first season of Dr Sexy MD, only to have Cas point out all the inaccuracies in hospital management and diagnosis instead of getting what the show's really about.

But now there are other things, too, like Cas teaching Dean to reach for the magic and use it, helping him change from human to dog to human again until he feels how it works and stops being afraid of getting stuck in one form or the other. Teaching him spells and charms and symbols.

They often get distracted.

During the day, when Cas is away, Dean gets bored at first. And boredom means worry—worry for Sam, worry for dad, worry for everything. So he soon sets to finding something to do to keep busy. He finds a garage not too far away that's hiring part-time, a bar that appreciates having another bulky guy around during busy nights. And he finds out he's not half bad at braiding and carving protection spells and symbols into nice things people go crazy over at Cas' shop—people who then leave a little safer from all the bad things out there. It helps.

Winter turns into spring, which slides into summer, and in summer Cas takes Dean to a reunion several states over. It's some sort of witch convention, apparently, although Cas doesn't approve of Dean calling it so.

They meet other witches there. A lot of witches greet Cas, actually, like he's that guy everybody knows. Some of them go further, stop to smile and catch up, treat him as friends would. At last. Dean doesn't know how they keep in contact, but he's glad to find Cas isn't as isolated as he first thought.

They're _very_ interested to find out about Dean.

Two of them—a thin blond guy with a messy beard and a weird accent and a red-haired girl with dark dark eyes who both zeroed in on Cas and clearly decided to stick to him like glue—stare at him, both intrigued, both surprised. Both _pleasantly_ surprised.

"I never thought I'd see the day," the guy, Balthazar, says. "How long has it been?"

When Cas answers the redhead, Anna, remarks: "And yet the bond is surprisingly strong. Surprisingly organic."

"It started developing long before we came to a final decision," Cas explains, and Dean wonders if it has to do with the fact that for the longest time he had little to no control over magic or if it's to be put down to the physical side of their relationship. He sure as hell isn't going to ask here though. Cas didn't say anything, but Dean feels it's the kind of development better kept under wraps. And his lo- his sex life is none of these people's business anyways.

"It _is_ a fine specimen, powerful to boot," Balthazar adds, and Dean's tempted to snarl, because he's not a pet, he's not an _it_ , but Cas puts a hand between his shoulder blades, a silent, _He's just teasing_.

Anna and Balthazar have their own familiars: an owl that remains perched on the redhead's shoulder and always tilts its head to the side at the same time as she, and a tall guy with skin darker than his eyes who morphs into a cat to settle on his witch's lap. Surprisingly they don't hate Dean, even though the cat is wary.

The convention lasts nearly a week—lots of conferences, (lots of people asking why Cas doesn't hold one this year, and Cas replying he's been too busy to prepare anything), lots of mingling, lots of competitions Dean and Cas don't take part in, lots of info and weapons to find or buy, lots of advice about how to deal with various supernatural species. Seriously, Dean spent years cursing witches and thinking them evil, when it turns out most of them—the normal, not crazy ones—actually help keeping the monsters in check. True, it's mostly so they get to live their own life in peace, undisturbed by hunters, but still. How come no hunter ever found out about that?

After it ends he and Cas go home. Dean tries to enjoy the ride back, although he misses the Impala like a lost limb. But apart from that he feels pretty good about everything. He even wonders if he could use the witch network to find out more about the thing that killed mom, and bring the info to dad, as a gift. That way he might be useful to the man, for once in his life. But then he remembers that he has no idea where dad is, and that the man wouldn't want to see him anyways, not after he failed his mission to watch over Sam. Not after Dean turned out to be a familiar, half-human half-magic, and bound himself to a freaking witch to boot.

Cas wraps his hand over his on the gear shift. He doesn't say anything, but he knows what Dean's thinking, of course he knows. It makes him sad.

Dean huffs, and when they're back home he makes sure to forget about it.

 

———

 

Something changed with the witch meeting though, because as summer ends and fall comes, Anna drops by to visit. Then Balthazar. Then others, whose names Dean didn't bother to catch.

He wonders if Cas had been telling them to stay away, waiting for him, for them to settle into the bond, for Dean to be ready. Cas doesn't say, but it sure looks like it.

Winter comes. Soon it's been a year since Dean met Cas. They celebrate. They also celebrate the first year of their bond—incidentally their anniversary too. Dean, who's never been in a lasting relationship, wonders if it's supposed to feel like this, to _still_ feel like this, after a whole year, surprising and precious and fragile and utterly amazing.

He gets better with his magic. Cas gets an apprentice, a boy named Samandriel, from an old witch family. Apparently, Cas has a _reputation_. Like, he's famous, and the boy spends the first week of his stay falling over himself with nerves and excitement and bashfulness because it's such an _honor_ to be taken under Cas' wing—until Dean sits him down to tell him how it's gonna be. No Sirs or Misters or Professor or anything, just plain Castiel and Dean and for God's sake, kid, _relax_.

Then he nicknames him Alfie, from his middle name Alfons, because his parents are cruel but Sam and Sammy are already taken.

He reminds Dean of Sam anyways—young and wide-eyed and curious and sixteen.

But it might only be because even after more than a year Dean still thinks about Sam a lot, and misses him even more than he misses the Impala. He hopes he's doing okay. Keeps thinking about dropping by in Stanford, which is only one and a half states away—but no, Sam doesn't want him there. And Dean wouldn't know what to say, how to explain, how to tell him about his life now.

He lets Alfie grow on him.

He lets time pass.

 

———

 

It all comes tumbling down one spring, two years, three years after Dean and Cas bonded—Dean's already starting to lose track, already starting to feel like this is the life he's always had, should always have had. But of course, nothing is permanent, nothing lasts.

The morning it happens looks like any other morning, Dean preparing breakfast while Cas is in the shower and Alfie babbling at the kitchen table, until there's a knock at the door.

It's Balthazar, pale and frazzled, something broken in his eyes. His familiar is nowhere in sight. He says to Cas: "My friend, my dear, dear friend. I made a mistake."

The mistake it a demon, or something like it, that Balthazar tried to summon to help with a powerful spell, but which, of course, escaped his control. As it turns out, Balthazar's always been a bit lazy when it comes to his binding charms, and it's come to bite him in the ass. Or rather, his familiar's ass, since out of the two of them only one made it out of the town.

Dean feels his heart squeeze. Over the years, he'd come to actually like the bloody cat. And the mere thought of losing Cas… He can't imagine the torment Balthazar is currently in.

But they can't think about it right now. They have a honest to God demon on the loose, and even better a couple of hunters on their tails, who guessed something was up before Balthazar completed the rituals and will now want to gank the monster and its summoner. In short, Balthazar is screwed. He asks for Cas' help.

Cas gives it without question, because he's a pushover when it comes to his friends. Dean's not so enthusiastic, because demons spell trouble, and there are hunters involved this time. Dean knows hunters. He doesn't want them anywhere near his witch. But Cas is stubborn (as much as Dean, if not more), so it's not like they have a choice. And like hell Dean will stay behind. Like hell.

So they go, without Alfie despite the kid's protests. They find the demon. It's weakened after a run-in with the hunters, who apparently are worth their salt, and it's easy to dispatch after that—well, it's easy for _Cas_ , for his powers combined with Dean's. For the first time, Dean gets a real glimpse of their scope. Damaged or not, the demon's still extremely powerful, and it takes a lot to send it back where it belongs—so much Dean feels it drag deep in his bones. But they do it. He's left exhausted, swearing he'll never let Cas syphon magic through him again. (It is a lie, of course, but still.)

Balthazar doesn't linger, because if the hunters find him he's toast. Dean lets him go. The witch might've done something stupid and dangerous, but he's not a bad guy, and losing his familiar is a worse punishment than anything the hunters might do to him, even death. He's pretty sure Balthazar will never get anywhere near a summoning spell again. He might not even be able to use magic any more.

He and Cas rest one night at a cheap motel, old memories dredging up as Dean patches his witch up, puts salve and bandages on his burns, because apparently the fires of Hell aren't a myth, and demons have it in them, a little piece of home where their heart should be. Cas is deep in thoughts, and even though he doesn't speak out loud Dean knows that he's thinking about finding the hunters and talking to them, telling them that the problem has been solved and that it won't happen again.

Dean doesn't need to use his voice for Cas to hear his worries, his wish to leave before the hunters know they've been here, because the chances of a hunter listening to a witch are slim at best. Dean was a hunter, once. He knows all about their policy, shoot first, ask questions later.

He won't let Cas get shot.

Cas only agrees to wait for a few days, until things have quietened down and the hunters have realized the demon is gone. Hopefully it will make things easier.

Dean's not convinced.

In the time they have he starts looking for the guys in question, because he's not above watching them from afar to make sure they don't get the jump on Cas before he's recovered and ready. Only before he finds them, they find Cas. And what's worse, when Dean rushes into the room it's not simply two hunters. It's John and—taller and larger and improbable—Sam.

The following minutes are a mess, degenerating into pandemonium as soon as John and Sam realize that Dean isn't here hunting the witch like they are, but actually here _with_ the witch and quite keen on preventing them from killing him. It leads to angry questions and turmoil and John pointing his freaking gun at Cas and Dean literally growling at him because _you don't touch his witch_ , and in that second even Sam looks like he doesn't know him. It ends with Dean taking a bullet for Cas because neither his father nor his brother ever knew how to listen to him and trust him. Too bad for them, because seeing and feeling Dean hurt makes Cas send them careening into the wall, a reflex more than a spell, and knocks them both out for the count.

When they come to, they're bound to the chairs, all their weapons and other gadgets—lock pick, box cutter, switchblade—taken away. Cas is bandaging Dean's shoulder, his thoughts a rumbling storm at the back of Dean's mind. Immobilized as they are, the hunters don't have a choice but to listen.

"You're alive," is what Sam says, awed and relieved, and Dean replies: "No thanks to you."

Sam looks contrite for a second. John is clearly confused and subsequently furious.

"What's the meaning of this, boy?" he asks. "Let us loose immediately."

Dean remembers a time when dad giving an order meant immediate obedience, no question asked, no time for thought, just _do it do it do it_ until it was done. He remembers the compulsion to obey. He expects it—but it doesn't come. Huh. He meets Cas' eye, who raises an eyebrow.

Clearly Dean's time away changed a lot of things. He finds himself snorting. "Yeah, I don't think so, knowing you."

Even Sam looks surprised.

"Okay, now listen." Dean tilts his head towards Cas. "This is Cas. Yes, he is a witch. No, you won't kill him." He looks at Sam, at John, getting the point across. "He's the good kind. He sent that demon back to the fiery pit where it belonged, which I doubt you would've managed all on your own. So you'll thank him, and then you'll be on your way. Agreed?"

Sam is frowning in confusion. Dad is frowning period.

"Explain what's your involvement in all this," John orders.

Which is exactly what Dean was hoping to avoid, all the while knowing he wouldn't get to. He crosses his arms.

"If _you_ explain what Sam is doing here," he retorts. "I thought he was off living the life at Stanford."

"Don't look at me like that, boy," John growls. "I didn't drag him back, _he_ came to _me_ , all on his own."

Dean incredulously raises his eyebrows, but Sam doesn't deny it.

"What about college?" Dean asks.

"Didn't pan out," is Sam's curt reply.

"Imagine our mutual surprise," John adds. "When I see him arriving alone, and when he finds out you're not with me like he thought."

Dean looks away, huffs. "Yeah, well. That's what tends to happen when you kick the dog out: he doesn't come back."

At that both dad and Sam glare at each other, suspicious, as if mutually accusing the other of doing the kicking. Clearly they haven't gotten over their issues. Terrific.

Dean rolls his eyes.

"I didn't mean literally, guys. And anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I had nowhere to go, and then I met Cas."

"And you decided to- Did you forget everything I taught you?" John asks. "Or did he bewitch you?"

Dean rolls his eyes again. "No bewitching took place. And what you taught me sucks, by the way. You don't know the first thing about witches. I'm beginning to think hunters don't know the first thing about anything."

"And since when are you such an expert?" John scoffs, tone dangerous. Dean knows he's wondering if he became a witch himself. It's all there in the calculating look of his eyes.

If only.

It doesn't make it any easier to admit the truth.

"Since I'm his familiar."

He thinks for a second that John's going to blow a gasket. But there's no surprise here. No question. No protest that it's not possible, that Dean's a skinwalker, not a familiar.

Like he knows. Like he's always known.

The bastard knew the whole time.

"And how exactly," he asks. "Is that not being put under a spell?"

"Since it doesn't work that way, dad," Dean snaps.

"How would you know?" John snarls. "He turned you into his pet."

He turns his head towards Cas, obviously intending to take him as his next target. Cas is livid.

Dean interrupts before things can get ugly.

"You two are the only ones who ever treated me like a dog," he says coldly. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam flinch. John shuts up. Apparently they've both come to realize that they behaved like dicks. "Cas never treated me as anything but an equal," Dean goes on. "And he never prevented me from making my own decisions." A pause. "And I decided to be with him."

John fumes. Sam recovers.

"So you're like, bonded?" he asks. "How does that work? And how come you're a familiar in the first place? I thought-"

"You thought wrong. I did too. Clearly what happened wasn't me being bitten by a skinwalker. Which would've been nice to know," he pointedly directs at John.

John stubbornly keeps silent.

"So you are- have- whatever, you can do magic?" Sam asks, starting to sound more excited than nonplussed.

"I do." Dean might be preening a bit. It's been so long since Sam looked at him with anything nearing admiration. Dean'll bask in it for as long as he can. "Where d'you think Cas got the juice to dispel that demon? He's powerful, but not that much, not on his own."

"Wow," Sam says, and John throws him a dark look. Sam pays him no heed and asks Cas: "And you killed the demon?"

Cas frowns, then replies: "No. I merely sent it back to Hell, from whence it had been taken by the summoning spell. Killing it would've required more power, and far more preparations. I privileged expediency."

"But you could've killed it? You could kill a demon, even as powerful as that?"

Cas' frown deepens as he wonders where these questions are leading. Dean has a strong inkling, especially when John intervenes.

"Sam-"

"No, but think about it," Sam cuts him off. "He could-"

"We're not getting help for this," John protests. "Not from anyone, let alone a witch."

How strange is it, to see someone else be the target of one of Sam's bitchfaces. "Yeah, and clearly it's been working for you. Twenty years and you're still chasing after the guy."

Dad's face darkens. Dean, still able to see an epic fight brewing, steps in.

"Er, sorry to interrupt, but Sam? Since when are you on the kill-the-thing-that-killed-mom bandwagon? Last I heard, you were all about forgetting about hunting and going to college and-"

"And I told you, it didn't pan out," Sam snaps. Then, on a lower, more vicious, more John-like tone: "The demon killed my girlfriend, Jessica, about half a year ago."

Well, that explains a lot.

"I'm sorry," Dean says awkwardly.

Sam shrugs. "It's not like you could've done anything."

But Dean can't help but think that maybe he could have, if he'd been there, if he'd stayed on station instead of letting Sam chase him away and-

"Dean," Sam interrupts. "You couldn't have done anything. I couldn't do anything, and I was right there."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Cas says, in that earnest and sad way of his, like hearing about such things breaks his heart even though they have no connection to him at all. Then, after a pause: "And it was a demon that did it?"

"Yes," Sam replies, subdued. "A yellow-eyed demon. He's been after us already, killed our mom. And now Jess."

Cas has grown quiet. "A demon with yellow eyes, you say?" He frowns. "It sounds like Azazel."

John tenses at the name. Obviously, it rings a bell. "So you know him."

"Witches know about most major demons, yes," Cas replies. Outwardly he is calm, but Dean can feel his irritation and antipathy through their bond. Cas doesn't like how John treated Dean, or how he's behaving now. Clearly he's itching to force some respect out of the man. "If only to know how to fight when confronted to one."

"Yeah, or how to summon them to do their bidding," John mutters. Cas makes an effort on himself and ignores him. His patience is running short. He addresses Sam instead:

"And you've been chasing after him? It's a miracle you're still alive."

"Half the time we don't know who's chasing after whom," Sam admits. He watches Cas for a couple of seconds, quiet and speculative, before he asks: "Do you reckon you could kill him?"

"Sam-"

"No, dad," Sam cuts him off. "We have to know about our options. The Colt's still in the wind, we don't even know if it really exists, or if it would even work. So excuse me for trying to find out if there's another way that would get us there faster."

"There is probably a way," Cas says. "But like any spell aiming to kill instead of simply exorcizing, it will take time. And power. More than I have, so I'd need help."

"Well, Balthazar owes you one," Dean remarks.

"Balthazar?" Sam asks.

"The guy responsible for the whole mess around here." At Sam's abrupt intake of breath Dean adds: "Don't worry, he won't do it again. And he got his punishment, trust me." He turns back to Cas: "Then there's Anna. Maybe Rachel? I don't think Uriel will help, he's a dick. And don't even think about asking Zachariah, he's not even that powerful anyways."

Cas smirks at Dean's obvious dislike for the last witch.

"It can be done," he tells Sam. "If that's what you want. To be honest, I'd be happy to help prevent yet another demon from roaming the Earth, getting up to no good. Especially a demon as powerful as Azazel. I wasn't aware he'd managed to escape."

"Okay, yeah. Then I'm in," Sam says at once.

Dean watches him, a bit worried. He doesn't know this side of Sam. Determined, bent on revenge, dangerous. Like their dad, but not; but worse, somehow. Colder and smarter. Dean hopes that killing Azazel will be enough to appease it—although he knows it probably won't. It won't bring back Jessica. It won't bring back mom.

But still, it's something. Something Sam has to do, or he'll never be able to let go. Look at dad, twenty years down the road and still holding on. Dean doesn't want Sam to end up like that.

After getting Sam's reassurance that he's not pretending and won't try to harm Cas, Dean releases him. Sam rubs at his wrists and stands. He's definitely grown taller. He walks through the room a bit, sits down on the bed beside the one where Cas is and starts asking more questions—more general questions, about witches, about when he and Dean met, about what it means that Dean is his familiar.

Dean for his part comes to stand in front of John, trying to find out if the man is safe to be unleashed. His shoulder is throbbing with pain.

It takes a few hours, but by the end of it John seems able to let things go. Cas sketching the plans that would enable him to reduce Azazel to nothing but a bad memory helps.

It's weird, though, to have Cas and his family in the same room, clumsily trying to work together. Weird but also nice.

It's something Dean never thought he'd have.

 

———

 

There are a lot of things to do, in the following months.

Cas contacts other witches—and wow, Dean knew he was kind of a big deal in the witch community, but he didn't think it would mean Cas can gather a whole army if he wishes to. As it turns out, he won't need that much—he even sends Alfie back home to his parents', for the boy's own safety—, but a lot of them help. They gather ingredients, translate passages of obscure lore, combine sigils, sharpen the spell work. Bobby pinches in too. It turns out he's ready to help if it means helping Sam—and getting to clock Dean on the head for being MIA for so long.

He still doesn't speak to John.

Their dad is busy trying to locate the demon, anyway, controlling its activity from some bar lost in the middle of nowhere.

Sam dabbles in magic, because he wants and needs to be part of the spell. Azazel did something to him when he was a baby, and it created a link between them—an angle of attack where the demon is vulnerable. And Sam isn't half-bad, as a witch.

When Dean says that to John, in order to appease him—because clearly the man doesn't like having a witch as a son any more than he likes having a familiar—, all he gets in answer is a grunt. And a question: "Why d'you think I sent you after him all these years ago?"

Dean ponders over it for days, only to come to the conclusion that if John had hoped he'd take Sam as his pseudo-anchor, then he bloody should've _said so_. Fuck him, really.

Finally, after several months of hard work, everything is ready. When the time comes—the right phase of the moon or something—they summon Azazel.

Seriously, how pitiful is that, that even the most powerful demons can be summoned right where you want them, if you have the right spell?

Sam's here with them. Azazel smirks and taunts him and brags and doesn't seem worried until Cas starts his incantation. At which point Azazel realizes he's screwed. His eyes dart all over the room, to the devil's trap, to the circle, to the sigils, to everything and everyone, to the witches standing at every point of the star. And he knows at once that he's done for.

He doesn't go down easy, though. But he goes down. And when it's all said and done Dean crouches over what's left of him—barely even ashes, the guy's been _pulverized_ —and says: "That's for our mom and Jess, you son of a bitch."

Sam looks like he can't quite believe it happened, can't quite believe they succeeded. But he hugs Dean all the same. The other witches are congratulating Cas, who proved once again how much of a badass he is, and after a while they leave the warehouse, stumbling with exhaustion and supporting each other until they collapse onto the cots and sleeping bags that have been set up in the tents outside.

They'd all agreed that it was better to perform the spell in an isolated area.

Cas follows soon after. Dean and Sam stay in the room for a long time, their father joining them, not quite believing it's over, not quite believing the demon won't rise from its ashes like a freaking phoenix or something.

When finally Dean drags himself outside and joins Cas in their tent, Cas tells him that even a phoenix wouldn't be able to rise from its ashes after such a spell.

"Phoenix are real?" Dean asks. Cas only chuckles and falls back asleep, leaving him to ponder over this for the two minutes he himself manages to stay awake.

 

———

 

It takes everyone several days to recover.

Once they have the other witches leave one after the other. After they're all gone, Cas takes his own car to go back home while Dean goes with Sam and dad to Lawrence. They visit Mary's grave, the three remaining Winchesters, and after telling her all that happened they find themselves at a bit of a loose end. A sort of, _Now what?_

It doesn't take long for John to tell them what, for him: apparently he's got another son, somewhere, who's still young enough to need his father in a way Dean and Sam proved they don't anymore. They took the matter of the yellow-eyed demon into their own hands and did in mere months what John hadn't managed to do in over twenty years of research. He'll try to make good by him, and by them. He promises. But he also tells them he'll need time. They can visit whenever.

He goes, talking about trying to be at Kate's house and settled in time for the start of Adam's school year—and when he mentions it, Sam realizes it's barely been a year since he left Stanford. And, well. He took a year off. He can go back. He went so far in his degree, it would be stupid not to finish it.

Dean agrees, if a bit wistfully. It was nice, having his brother back, getting to know him again. He stands by Sam's side through all the belated phone calls, all the arguing and pleading with whomever is on the other end of the line so they'll let him start again in the fall, even though it should be too late. Fortunately for him, Sam's always known how to coax people into doing what he wants, when he wants. Like driving him to Palo Alto. But Dean does, without complaint, because John gave him the Impala and driving her all the way is pure joy. And because obviously it's not easy for Sam to go back there, with the memory of his girlfriend everywhere. But he goes. And he promises to visit Dean soon.

Dean-

Dean always knew what he was going to do. He goes back to Cas, goes back home, ready to pick up where they left off. There's a pile of newspapers with cases they haven't had the time to look at with all that demonic mess, and a whole lot of burgers that haven't been eaten. He parks the Impala in the driveway in the middle of the day, not leaving any room for Cas' crappy car, and starts baking a pie.

Cas is pleased when he comes home—on foot, because his crappy car, clearly feeling it wasn't wanted, refused to start—and he doesn't hesitate to show it in many very creative ways.

 

———

 

Dean pretty much expects that's how things will go on. Back to how they were, with the added bonus of semi-regular phone calls with both John and Sam.

He expects hunts, and sometimes fights, and unannounced guests, and life.

He expects Sam to not make it for Christmas and New Years, too busy with school and exams, wishing to do well, probably aiming for grad school and a full ride.

He expects him to make some time at the end of the fall term, though—but he _doesn_ 't expect him to arrive on their doorstep with far too many bags, far too many things, all his things, grinning and saying he's transferring to a smaller college near where Dean and Cas live. He's finishing his degree but doesn't know about grad school, doesn't know about that normal life he always thought he wanted. What little he did with magic felt pretty good, and cool, and right, and maybe, just maybe, Dean's the one who's onto something for once.

He takes over the guest room for spring term, and doesn't go far after that. He opts for grad school in the end, but does other things to the side. Figures himself out. He has time for it. They have time. They have years.

Years to live and fight and make up and love. Years for Dean and Cas to figure out their bond, what it means, what it entails, where it can go—where it should go. Years for Sam to get over his grief, and find himself. Years for all of them to accept the past—mom's death and the crappy years of their childhood and the fact that John will be for Adam the father he never was for them. Years to let dad make amends where and when he can. Years for Dean to figure out how to make him understand that he's not just a familiar to Cas, and that Cas is not just his witch, because the old man sure as hell ain't going to get it by himself. Years for Bobby to catch up on all things witchy that he's been missing (" _Balls!_ "). Years for so many things—and a lot of belly rubs, but shh, that's between Dean and Cas, and no one's business but theirs.

 

 


End file.
